Night at the Overtaker Manor
by the.ktgrace
Summary: The year is 1939: Six young, L.A. socialites are invited to dinner at the mysterious and remote Overtaker Manor, home to the widowed Ms. Maleficent. Soon, the murdered body of Maleficent's beloved niece turns up. With a rainstorm trapping the guests inside, will they be able to untangle the web of secrets and lies, or will they never make it out alive?
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE:**

The year is 1939, during a typical summer July. America is a growing, changing nation; it slowly climbs out of the snatches of the Depression towards a bigger, brighter future. And nowhere does that future sparkle brighter than in Los Angeles. All sorts of happy hopefuls pour into the city through its newly-built Union Station, ready to see the glimmering city lights and the rolling Hollywood Hills. California is a place of endless opportunity.

For the wealthy and established, life in the City of Angels could be luxurious. High among the lush mountains around the city, one particular girl stares out of a window at the twinkling of streetlights far down below. She stops, turning away to pace the floor of her living room once again, liking the sound of her house-slippers on the hardwood floors. The girl knew her aunt despised the clacking, so she keeps pacing anyways.

Catching a breeze from a distant open window, Jess pulls her silk dressing gown even tighter around her shoulders, shuddering. Aunt Maleficent always opened the windows at night, when the outside air had a distinctive chill in it. Jess never understood why her aunt stayed in California when she had a strong liking for the cold. But Aunt Maleficent would answer every time: "Los Angeles is where the money is, Jezebel".

Not that Aunt Maleficent _needed_ the money. Her last marriage had been extremely profitable, to some wealthy Russian businessman with the last name of Chernabog. After his untimely, unexpected death left Aunt Maleficent an heiress worth millions, Jess began to question her aunt's innocence in the whole ordeal. Everything looked a little _too _convenient. But Aunt Maleficent was the only family Jess had left, and Maleficent had taken the girl in as the daughter she'd never had.

"Jezebel," Aunt Maleficent's deep voice calls from the divan by the fireplace. The flames paints the older woman's sharp face with a strange glow, giving unnatural warmth to her pale – almost greenish tinged – face. "You know how the endless pacing bothers me."

"I'm bored," Jess says softly, "I think I'm going to bed soon." She turns away from the floor-length windows.

"Oh Jezebel, before you go," Maleficent takes another puff from her cigarette, the long holder wedged precariously between two fingers.

"Yes, Aunt Maleficent?"

"I've received responses from each of our invited guests for the banquet Saturday evening. Six fine, young society members from around the Los Angeles scene, it'll really be something." Another long drag from the cigarette. "I think you're going to enjoy yourself, Jezebel."

Jess secretly hated when her Aunt called her the nickname "Jezebel", but Maleficent had proven adamant on using it. "Aunt Maleficent, you know I don't like social events like those. They're always so stuffy and forced."

"This isn't like the dinners we attended with my late husband, darling," says Aunt Maleficent. "The guest list was specifically planned with you in mind. It's not too often that you meet other teenagers your age, and all successful ones too. Each one had a connection with Chernabog in one way or another, and I thought I'd respect his wishes by inviting these particular individuals."

"My uncle died almost a year ago."

Maleficent sits up, annoyed. "And I didn't know of these connections until recently. Really, Jezebel, must you contradict me on everything?" Maleficent's voice had become cold and even darker, frightening Jess. Her aunt composes herself, closing her eyes and taking another puff. "I'll have Grimhelde or Cruella leave out a new gown for you for the dinner."

Jess nods silently as her aunt references the two housemaids. As quietly as she can, Jess turns and slips from the room, leaving Aunt Maleficent alone in the dim-light darkness.

...

The silver moon hangs high in the starry sky, casting sparkling beams of moonlight into Jess's bedroom. At the opposite end of the house from the living room, the bedroom has a view of the manor's estate. The large, old brick building sits deep in a grove of enormous oak trees, the entire ground sloping upwards before dropping off into a sheer cliff at the back of the estate. Thick mud puddles are the result of an unusually stormy afternoon, and a lone figure stumbles around in the darkness.

Jess finishes removing the last pin from her raven-colored hair, and she leans into the mirror to check her roots. Right there, sparkling almost white against the rest of her dark hair, is a thin stripe of very-light blonde. It was at Aunt Maleficent's request that Jess dyed her hair so dark, since her aunt believed it "brought out Jezebel's stunning beauty to its fullest". That tiny stripe of natural blonde – just like the name _Jess_ – were just scraps of a broken identity that her aunt tried to replace.

Jess moves towards her bed, and the figure outside catches her eye. From her perch three-stories above the ground, the shape is nothing more than a blurred shadow, but she watches the figure trip and stumble into a mud puddle. Even from afar, Jess recognizes the slow, limping gait of a familiar man.

Checking the hall to be sure of its emptiness, Jess's feet fly as she runs downstairs. From a distance, she can hear the crackling of the living room fireplace, leading her to believe that Aunt Maleficent is still lounging on her divan. Jess scurries down and down, past the maids' quarters and the kitchen before finally reaching the side door.

Jess throws open the door, seeing a muddy old man thirty feet away. "Mr. Wayne?" she calls, keeping her voice just low enough. "Mr. Wayne, would you like to come inside?"

The aged groundskeeper turns at the sound of her voice, nods, and begins to limp towards the door. He thanks "Miss Jessica" several times, referring to her full name like no one else does. The downstairs is quiet and drafty inside, and Jess leads the old man into the abandoned kitchen.

Jess throws a switch and a single lightbulb glows above a large table. She can see the fresh mud staining the groundskeeper's pants and sweater. "Mr. Wayne, would you like some help cleaning up? I saw you fall into the mud from upstairs. I can fetch some towels for you."

Wayne shook his head, "Oh no, don't trouble yourself over me. It's just a little mud. Believe me, it takes plenty more than a mud puddle to take this old geezer down." He laughs, and it turns into coughing.

"Can I heat some water for tea, or coffee? Maybe a warm drink for you?"

"Really, Miss Jessica, you're too kind." Wayne leans back into his wooden chair. The muscles in his wrinkled face sag as he relaxes a little, yet his ice-blue eyes are still bright and alert. "Does your Aunt know I'm here?"

Jess lowers her head, "I don't think so." For whatever reason, Aunt Maleficent never particularly liked Mr. Wayne, and she made that clear on several occasions. However, the groundskeeper had stayed on this estate since its construction, living in a modest house on the edge of the property; this manor's land was his home long before Chernabog purchased it. "I'm sure she won't mind if I just give you a helping hand. She is too busy plotting – I mean, _planning_ – some dinner banquet this weekend."

"I've heard grumblings about it." Mr. Wayne speaks in a weathered voice, "Sounds like she has invited quite a few young, _eccentric_ members of the Los Angeles scene."

"And I'm sure we'll all get along swimmingly," Jess says with sarcasm. She turns towards Wayne. "Do you know anything about these guests?"

He straightens up. "Not much, I'm afraid. Some are natives to the area, most are not. A few are far more famous than the others, but they are all important in their unique ways."

"Knowing my aunt, they're all loaded with money."

Wayne shakes his head, "That's what you would think, but it's not quite so."

"Aunt Maleficent said something about them all being _connected_ to Uncle Chernabog in one way or another. What do you think about that?"

"I'm not sure. Your late uncle was a rather secretive man, especially with his business transactions."

Jess's brows furrow, "So you are thinking that these were all business associates of Chernabog's? I thought they are just kids, right?"

"Oh yes, very young. I saw the envelopes when Grimhelde was taking them to be mailed, so I happen to know exactly who has been invited to this dinner." He watches Jess's face light up with a question, but his cool eyes give a clear _no_. "No, that is not my place to say anything. If your aunt wants to keep it a surprise, then so be it. I would be intruding to say anything otherwise."

Jess hated pouting, but she finds herself slipping back into it. "Aunt Maleficent is already forcing me to attend this dinner, and here she won't even tell me who is invited. She keeps reminding me that she's hosting this dinner _for me_, even though I never wanted this. If she would just listen, she could understand."

Wayne speaks carefully, "I think she tries to do what she believes will be best for you. And if that includes hosting these parties so you can meet other remarkable youth, then she will do it."

A silence passes in the dimly-lit kitchen, and Jess finds Mr. Wayne's words to be surprisingly reassuring. He has always been her favorite of the staff at the manor, with his calm countenance and wise sparkle in his eyes. "Mr. Wayne, you have a daughter, don't you?"

He nods, his face lighting up. "Wanda. She's a good twenty-seven years old, and sharper than any tack you can find."

"Does she live around here?"

"In the city. She attended the university and now works as a full-time private investigator. She is incredible, really, working in a field that so few women decide to go into. But she's always been so smart and independent like that."

"You must be so proud," Jess smiles, then pauses to think. "Mr. Wayne, you love your daughter?"

"Of course, Miss Jessica."

"And so you trust her? You know, to handle herself and make her own decisions?"

Mr. Wayne could see where this was heading. "This is about your aunt, isn't it?" Jess nods, and he continues. "Jessica, she loves you, you know that? And I think she does trust you. But you are an eighteen-year-old girl, and she still tries to look out for you. It's as simple as that."

Jess nods again, but her smile is a lie. Deep down, she knows that nothing is ever so simple.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO:**

_Three Months Ago…_

_He takes small, slow steps through the enormous hall, taking in the sights and sounds. The chatter of conversations drifts upwards to the high ceiling, where large lamps hang from the glossy wooden panels. Every bench is crowded with extraordinarily-unique people, each holding a grin of excitement on their faces._

_A harried-looking young woman bumps into his arms as she hurries by. "Sorry, sir!" she calls over her shoulder, winking at the handsome brown-haired man._

_He can't help but smile; he's completely anonymous. He knows that it won't last for long, once someone back home tips off the papers. Back in Orlando, nearly every local could recognize his face. _

_But for that moment, Finn Whitman is a California nobody._

_Finn carries his entire life in one leather suitcase, swung in his right hand. A newspaper is tucked casually under his arm, with a gray hat perched on his head. He steps outside into the bright sunshine, and catches his first glimpse of the dozen palm trees swaying lazily in the breeze._

_Using the rolled-up newspaper, Finn hails a taxi. He reaches inside his coat pocket, checking for the cash needed to later pay the fair. His hand brushes over a thick envelope, just like the other one in his suitcase. And that money was just a tiny sliver of the fortune in the bank in his name, currently being transferred from Orlando, Florida to his new home in Los Angeles._

_A bright yellow Chevrolet rolls up, the driver leaning out of the window. "Where are you heading, sir?" He asks, a puffy-cheeked man with a natural tan._

_Finn stops, having no idea what his destination will be. "I think… let's try City Hall first, shall we?" He pulls the door open and hops inside._

_"Alrighty then," says the driver, pulling away from Union Station with a jerky swerve. "I'm Dillard Cole, at your service," he extends his hand over his shoulder._

_"Whitman, Finn Whitman. It's a pleasure to meet you."_

_Dillard calls to the back seat, "And you too. So, you seem like you're new here. Where are you from, Finn?"_

_"Orlando, Florida."_

_"Oohh, _Orlando_!" says Dillard. "I've never been, but I've heard it's really something special. Are you here for a visit, or extended stay?"_

_Finn lets his head fall backwards onto the cushion. "I'm gonna live out here, I think. Change of scenery."_

_"Need a fresh start?"_

_Finn sits up, "How did you guess?"_

_"You have that look, I see it all of the time. Guys run to L.A., to the glitz and the glamour and plenty of them fall in love with the city. Some don't. See, I've lived here my entire life, I practically know this town like the back of my hand."_

_A moment of silence passes, and Dillard fills it with speeding and frightening driving. "So, are you running from a girl or something?"_

_"No," Finn answers, instead knowing that he was running from a man. A dead man, Finn's own uncle to be exact. Uncle Mickey's death was quick and unexpected, but even more unexpected was how Uncle Mickey left his entire fortune to his distant nephew, Finn. This made Finn into an alien to much of his disgruntled family, and the single richest person under 21 in Florida state._

_That's when he started noticing the changes. Soon, his close friends grew distant, and others began competing for his time and attention. Everyone looked at a friendship with "the Whitman boy" as quick, easy money. Finn fell into the partying circuits, and had his heart broken a few too many times by a girl more interested in the green than the man. He was feeling incredible pressure from his own close family, pressure to loan money and attend this big event and host that charity benefit and to be the perfect golden boy. _

_Finn had always known he wouldn't be that golden boy. _

_So, one day he snapped. He packed his bags – or rather, a solitary bag - and left for the train station. He promised to provide his immediate family with the money they might need, but called it at that. No more fake friends and transparent parties, no more social pressures from a town that printed your picture in nearly every newspaper edition. _

_California presented him with a second chance, an opportunity to forge his own future. Of course, he knew word would break of his arrival in Los Angeles. Soon, he would be forced to fall back into those same circles. After all, it would be impossible for someone to transfer that kind of money to a bank without questions being asked. But Finn didn't care._

_"Here we go, Finny-boy," Dillard says, pulling up in front of the building. It stands tall and stark white against a powder-blue sky, like a turret of a magic castle. "City Hall."_

_Finn doesn't move. "Dillard, what if I told you that I don't know when or where I want to get off."_

_Dillard pauses silently. "You know, you're still getting paid for the distance in miles, right?"_

_"I know."_

_"Then I guess we keep driving, right?" Dillard presses the gas, and the taxi zooms away from the City Hall. "You have a place to stay?"_

_"Not yet, I suppose I should look at a few apartments, right?" _

_Dillard nods, "I can drop you off at a real-estate agency if you'd like. Not too far away from here. It'belongs to a personal friend of mine; I'm sure he can get you a place that clean and cheap."_

_Finn shrugs, "I dunno, everyone always says Los Angeles has beautiful views at night, right? I was thinking maybe something high up, where I can see the city."_

_Dillard's head rolls back over his shoulder, "You do realize how expensive rooms like those run, right? I mean, we're talking big money here."_

_"I don't think money's gonna be an issue," Finn says quietly. _

_The rest of the car ride passes with soft silence sprinkled with small talk and furious honking from Dillard. Finally, he rolls up in front of a low brick building. _

_"Stop number two, Finn. Just head on in and tell them that Dillard sent you. I'm sure you'll get a good deal."_

_Finn stops to dig out the appropriate fare for the tax, and he hands Dillard the money. Suddenly he stops, with an idea. "Dillard, how do you like your job right now?"_

_"It's okay, I guess. Tough hours, but I get to meet all sorts of people."_

_"And do they pay well?"_

_Dillard's eyebrow raises, "On a good week I make around fifty dollars a week, why?"_

_Finn says, "I've got a job proposal for you. I'm new here, so I'm going to need someone who knows the city well to help me out. You know, like a driver. It can be for a few weeks or so, or longer. I'm flexible. I'm also willing to double your pay now, or higher if you'd like."_

_Dillard's eyes bulge, "F-Finn?" He stutters, "A job? And a paycheck like that? That's big." He closes his eyes, thinking. "Can I get back to you on that? I mean, I'm definitely interested, but I think I would need to spend some time deciding on this one. Here, let me give you the number you can reach me by."_

_Finn writes down the number and pulls his suitcase from the seat beside him as he exits the taxi. Dillard opens his window, beaming from the driver's seat._

_"Well, Dillard, I'll call you as soon as I get into an apartment with a telephone. It was great meeting you, and I hope we can work something out."_

_"Me too. I mean, it was great meeting you, not _me_, you know…" Dillard fumbles with his words, then extends his hands towards Finn's. Finn smiles back at him and shakes it._

_Dillard Cole doesn't know he is shaking hands with the seventh richest person in the greater Los Angeles area._

_..._

Three swift knocks ring out from the front door, and silence. Then three more, before the jiggling of a key in a lock and the door is thrown open.

"Lawrence Finnegan Whitman, it is eleven-thirty in the morning. For the love of God, _please_ tell me you're not still sleeping!" A petite, pretty Asian woman shoulders her way in, holding a steaming mug of coffee in one hand with a full briefcase in the other. She kicks aside a pile of old newspapers with a bright red heel.

There is a murmur from the next room over, where Finn Whitman sits staring at a shiny black typewriter. His head in his hands, his arms rest on his knees as he is slumped over. The printed page is completely empty.

Feeling sympathetic, Storey Ming walks over to Finn and gently rubs his shoulder. "Rough night?"

"Yeah, I was out late." Finn grumbles, thankfully accepting the coffee.

Storey glances towards the shut bedroom door, a shadow passing over her face. "There's nothing – or _no one_ – you regret inside there, right?"

Finn shakes his head. Learning from past experience in Florida, Finn always kept his head during late nights out on the town. It was easy for someone to fall in too deep in the City of Angels.

Storey rifles through a stack of untouched mail on the kitchen countertop, "Well, it's about time to start your day." She says, "According to my watch, it's far too late to still be in your pajamas, and you have a lunch with Mr. McQueen, of the Dinoco Automotive and Aerospace Company. You're going to meet him at twelve o'clock, remember? That reminds me, did you let Mr. Cole know yet, or I am going to have to do that?"

Finn groans quietly into his coffee cup, but Storey's ears are sharp.

"Finn, you know it's good networking to meet with Mr. McQueen. You have to stay present and relevant in this market, or you'll get all cooped up at home and become…" Storey lets her voice fade off, looking around at Finn's messy, empty apartment.

Finn wasn't quite sure what he would do without Storey. At first, he had hated her. His family in Orlando had solicited her help as a "personal assistant" for their faraway Finn. Of course, they were all worried that Finn's new life in California would somehow end in him gambling or drinking away all of the money, so they decided that giving him a babysitter – or more like private investigator – would help keep him in line. And Storey was never slow to get on Finn's case about an obligation that he hadn't fulfilled.

His carefree life had vanished, and now he was wallowing in the stresses of a wealthy socialite's life again. Just like he had hated. And he had never felt so empty.

Which is why – after the initial hard feelings against the terrifyingly-determined Storey began to subside – Finn found himself reaching out towards her for support. And it wasn't long at all before they entered a brief, whirlwind affair. There were two weeks of passionate moments and memorable evenings, but it began to fall apart once they realized it for what it was: something entirely void of real romantic feelings. Actions could never make up for emotions.

Now Storey was his rock and his companion, but foremost his assistant. And she was doing a damn-good job with a hard client.

Storey rises again, walking around the room before her eyes rest on the pile of mail again. A thick, creamy envelope catches her eye like it didn't before. "Finn, you have a letter here."

Finn stands up, "I thought I always get mail, Storey. Don't say: I'm guessing it's another letter from distant cousin blank in Orlando."

"No, it looks like it might be an invitation or something like it," Storey slits the envelope with a pointed finger and withdraws a fancy card. "_You are most cordially invited_… see, I told you so."

Finn gently takes the invitation from her hands and reads it carefully, taking in each elaborately-scripted word. Storey grabs a rumpled newspaper from by the front door and sits down comfortably in an armchair.

"Finn, I don't mean to interrupt your reading, but you're already running late. I would suggest marching into that bedroom of yours to take a shower, and I really don't want to see you again until you're wearing real pants. _Please_."


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE:**

_"And that's a wrap, everyone! Great work today; take the rest of the evening off and we'll see you back here tomorrow."_

The sign on the door is a little metal star, with the words "C. Turner" stamped into its face. Instead, a stunning blonde sits at her vanity, and bright bulbs twinkle around the mirror's face. Charlene starts pulling each pin from her braided hair, letting the natural golden curls spill out.

There's a soft knock from the door behind her, and a head pokes through. "Miss Turner, may I come inside?"

"Of course, Minnie, come right in," Charlene turns, looking every bit the glamorous Hollywood starlet she has become. Twenty-one years old and already on an ascent to the top, her famous "angel face" – as it was often called – regularly graces the covers of _Hollywood _and _Life_ magazines. She was the hottest young star in the area, and she was only getting started.

A short girl tiptoes inside, her short black bob bouncing. Charlene beckons to a plush chair to the right of the vanity with a smile on her face.

"Lumiere says to remind you that he has RSVP'd to the invitation that you received in the mail this past week," says the young studio worker, referencing Charlene's French agent.

"Good, good," Charlene unwinds the last tiny braid from her head, letting her character – Helen of Troy – slip away. She was a month deep in production for the latest Lake Buena Vista Films movie, "The Glory of Troy". Starring as the female lead, Charlene was adding just another blockbuster to her impressive résumé. This was to be the biggest movie to hit theaters since _Gone with the Wind_ earlier that year. (A movie which Charlene had been considered heavily for the role of Scarlet, but was forced to drop out due to scheduling conflicts.)

"Is that all, Minnie?"

"All from Lumiere, Miss Charlene." Minnie answers, "He phoned in long-distance from his deal in New York. And he says something about _suggest Tuesday evening_, whatever that means."

"Hmm, odd." Charlene gives two squirts from a bottle of rosewater, her favorite scent.

Minnie continues, "And apparently Mr. Frollo has asked about your availability again. He seems quite persistent to meet with you over dinner; to talk about, as he says, _potential projects_."

Charlene's stomach rolls. She could see Frollo's intentions all too clearly; what else would a finance executive from the Lake Buena Vista Films Company really want to meet with her about? His hungry looks and drawling voice did little to hide his true intentions, and it disgusted Charlene. She had sworn off of relationships with Buena Vista employees of _any_ sort after a falling-out with a past director nearly cost her everything. The last thing she wanted was to become involved with such a wrinkly, horrible old man.

Charlene remembers Lumiere's strange message, "Minnie, Frollo wants to meet for dinner, right?"

"I believe so."

"And how does Tuesday evening look for him?"

Minnie pauses, trying to recall Mr. Frollo's busy schedule. "I don't think that evening is free. From what I know, he has a meeting with that young fellow at the Pixar Camera Company, and after that he's meeting with some big-shot animator kid. Busy night."

"Perfect." Charlene says, and for a moment her natural slightly-southern accent creeps into her voice. Being a big Hollywood star forced her to try and hide her Georgia accent, but her voice still carried a soft twang to it. "Tell Mr. Frollo that the only night I'm available is next Tuesday. If he cannot make it, and we both know he can't, then we'll have to push it back and hope to reschedule."

Minnie understands perfectly, "Of course, Miss Charlene." She rises to leave the dressing room, then stops and turns around. "If you don't mind my asking, what is the invitation for?"

"Oh, some dinner party up in the hills. An old family friend, at some place called the _Overtaker Manor_."

Minnie smiles back, "Sounds like a delightful evening."

…

The streets are noisy and crowded, with people moving to and fro. One man walks with a stuffed briefcase in his right hand, filled to the point of exploding with blueprints and carefully-typed sheets of paper. He pulls his hat down further on his head, covering the coppery-red hair slicked back underneath.

Dell Philby walks quickly, trying not to attract much attention to himself as possible. This isn't a difficult task, as Philby isn't too tall or unusual in appearance. He is an attractive fellow, with a thin, angular face and hazel eyes that dart about. His pinstriped suit is impeccable, and he wears a face of complete calm, a perfect façade for the hopeful emotions within him.

Turning towards a stone building, Philby pulls open the wrought-iron gate and another door behind it. He steps into the glow of the building, scanning the walls for a particular name on a placard. Finding his destination, he turns to ascend the first flight of stairs.

Philby's nerves still flutter like the buzz of electricity, ever since that phone call a few days ago. He had been scheduled for a meeting with Mr. Claude Frollo, of the Lake Buena Vista Films Studio, in just less than one week. This meeting was big; it was sending him on his way for taking his starter camera company – Pixar Camera Co. – to a larger level.

Pixar had been Philby's baby for the past two years, when tinkering with math equations and technology led him to advancing the standard video-capturing camera. Now, Pixar cameras were top-of-the-line, with clearer picture and brighter sound than nearly any other in the business. His latest project included adding color to the films, and Philby suspected he was only a few weeks away from perfecting the technology.

Pixar was gaining quite a reputation in the Hollywood neighborhood, but signing with a studio giant like Lake Buena Vista Films would be a game-changer.

Philby reaches the fourth floor and hurries down the hallway to one particular door. He stands facing a small sign, which reads "Mike Wazowksi: Business Management and Assistance". Philby knocks once, waits, then knocks again.

It's not like Mike to be late. Philby remembers calling early, when Mike picked up the phone and confirmed their meeting time. But now where was he?

Philby bangs on the door again, this time he is harder. By now, the whole hallway can probably hear him, but he doesn't care. Philby _needs_ to speak with Mike: He is Philby's best advisor when it comes to big sales meetings like this.

"Is everything alright?" Philby hears a concerned voice behind him, and he jumps. Turning around, he stands face-to-face with an auburn-haired woman, probably in her thirties or so. She wears faint bags under her bright eyes, which stare at Philby with accusatory curiosity.

"Yes, yes, everything is just fine." Philby straightens. So much for not trying to attract attention.

"You were knocking pretty hard just now," the woman says, obviously not afraid to be frank. "Is there something I can help you with? Someone you're looking for?"

"No, nothing," Philby answers, then pauses. "You wouldn't happen to know where Mike Wazowski is, do you?"

"It's almost six, I'm pretty sure he left the office." She says. "Maybe for dinner, maybe to call it a night. I don't know. Regardless, it's pretty clear that he's not here right now."

Philby hates to hear that. He looks the woman over; too old for his taste, and with a harsh look in her eyes that doesn't match her pretty appearance. Maybe a secretary from a nearby office?

"Do you have any idea when Mr. Wazowski will be back?"

She looked offended, "What do I look like, a crystal ball? How am I supposed to know?" She squares up, her tiny feet squeezed into proper heels. "You're just going to have to wait and see if you can talk to Mr. Wazowski in the morning."

"Oh, I'm sorry," he retracts. "I thought, perhaps, you might be working with him, or in another office."

"I'm down the hall, yes."

Philby cranes his neck, seeing only one other door on this floor. The print is too far away to read the sign. "Secretary?"

Now she really looks miffed. "_No. _Private Investigator, if you don't mind. Wanda Alcott is the name." She stops, taking a step back. "You're not from here, are you?"

"Moved to L.A. a few years ago," he responds, his British accent seeping into his words. "Is that an important question?"

"Maybe. I'm a P.I., remember?"

"And what makes me so worth investigating?" Philby teases.

Wanda shrugs. "You're certainly a disturbance to the other workers on this floor, so that means to me. You bang on that door like you've got a personal vendetta against it, possibly some pent-up anger. Who knows? For all _I_ know, you could be a menace to society."

"Either you do your job way too well, or you're bored out of your skull right now," Philby returns. He turns to his left to walk back to the stairwell, and Wanda follows.

"That's insulting, for someone you've just met." She jogs slightly to keep up with his longer strides.

"Don't worry, you've got your wish. I'll be right on my way."

"What were you doing here in the first play, Mr. Brit?"

"It's Philby," he responds, then stops. "I work with Mr. Wazowski, and currently I need him for some business advice.

"What kind of business?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

Wanda folds her arms. "And you don't like answering them, do you? What kind of business?"

"I sell cameras, okay?" Philby pops open his briefcase, pulling out a blueprint sketch to show Wanda the technical details of his product. "Pixar Camera Company, I'd watch for it in the news if I were you. Or better yet, in a year from now or so, watch all of the big movie credits for my logo. It'll be there."

"Impressive, Mr. Philby." Wanda hears the clock chime six, and she turns. "It was nice to meet you. I'm sure we'll cross paths again sometime soon."

"And what makes you so sure about that?"

"I have a gut feeling. It makes me a good investigator." She watches Philby tip his hat and walk towards the stairwell. A sheet of paper flutters from his stuffed briefcase, drifting to the ground like a lonely leaf.

"Mr. Philby? You forgot something." She calls back, and he turns.

As Wanda bends to pick it up, her observant eyes catch a glimpse of the first line of script on the page:

_You are most cordially invited…_

**Author's Note:**

**Thank you so much to any readers who followed this story or left encouraging comments! It's absolutely wonderful to hear positive feedback, and I'm hoping the story will only get better from here. That being said, I'm issuing a quick warning: There will be character death in the chapters up ahead. I just wanted to give a quick heads-up, since it seems that KK fans are very fond of their characters, and I don't want to make anyone TOO upset. Just stick with me :)**

**(I don't own anything. Ridley and the Mouse own all!)**


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR:**

The sign over the small, one-story building reads "Mrs. Nash's Tailoring and Alterations", and the windows stand crowded with frozen mannequins in drop-waist dresses and striped suits. Finn pauses, before pushing the door open with a jingle.

Inside, he hears the hum of sewing machines and some crackly jazz playing through a bad radio. He holds his garment bag tightly under his left arm, and strides up to the counter.

"Excuse me?" He asks patiently, and he sees an enormous woman turn around. Her face is wide along with the rest of her frame, and the heavy makeup she wears stands in stark contrast to the bright freckles on her large arms. Frizzy strawberry-blonde hair streaked with gray sits atop her head in a strange, curled lump. "I was hoping to get a pair of suit pants tailored?"

"Of course, darling," says the woman in a growling voice. She carries herself with an air of undisputed authority, and it is clear to Finn that she is Mrs. Nash. "When will you need the pants by?"

"Preferably Friday evening, if that is doable," Finn takes in the scene behind the counter, where several young women sit, bent over their work.

Mrs. Nash takes another puff from her cigarette, and Finn tries not to cough. He cannot stand cigarette smoke. "Of course. Do you know what material the pants are?"

Finn checks the waistline for a tag, and finds nothing. "I'm, I'm not sure, ma'am."

"Oh, no matter. Give 'em here." She calls, and he passes her the pants. Mrs. Nash shakes them, rubs the fabric together and presses her ear into the material, before muttering "cotton blend, I'm guessing."

Finally she stands and motions towards a small curtained-off dressing stall to her right. "Try on your pants, boy, and we'll see where they need to be adjusted. Hemmed?"

Finn nods, then strides over to the stall. A few minutes later, he stands in front of a full-length mirror in his new suit pants. Mrs. Nash crouches at his feet, pinning here and tucking there until the legs are equal in length. She looks longingly at her cigarette sitting in the countertop ashtray, where Finn had asked her to keep it while measuring his flammable pants.

Every pin in place, Mrs. Nash lumbers to her feet. "Full hemming, that'll be about five dollars and fifty cents."

Finn knew that was expensive for a simple hemming, but he did little to bargain. He nods, stepping down off of the tiny pedestal in front of the mirror. As he turns, he runs right into one of Mrs. Nash's workers, and they both tumble to the floor.

"I'm incredibly sorry," he says, rolling to his knees. He feels her small hands clasp his forearm for balance, then dart away quickly.

"No, no, I am. I should've looked where I was going," whimpers the girl in front of him. Finn gets his first look at her, and he drinks it in. She's a lovely girl, with a deep natural tan and dark hair hanging long. Her eyes are captivating, even with their embarrassed stare. It's been a long time since Finn has seen someone truly beautiful – not attractive, but _beautiful_ – and she leaves her mark.

"Well, get up girl!" cries Mrs. Nash harshly. "Leave the poor customer alone." As the beautiful girl stands to scamper off, Finn hears Nash insulting the clumsy worker under her breath.

"Really, it was my fault. Don't blame her," Finn steps in, addressing Nash.

But the woman just gives a raspy laugh, "Now what kind of business would I be running if my klutzy workers didn't assume responsibility for their actions? A damn rotten one, I tell you. Let's get you checked out and paid for, over here at the register."

Finn silently follows Nash to the counter again, craning his neck for a glimpse at the girl. He watches her walk quickly towards the back of the shop, toss a blushing glance over her shoulder, then duck behind a curtained doorway and out of his sight.

He can still feel the warmth of her grasp.

…

The wall clock clicks loud and incessantly, and it rattles through Willa Angelo's brain as the stands in her boss's office. It bounces off of the echo of her heartbeat, and she can barely keep her foot from tapping nervously. Across from her, the editor-in-chief Mr. Brad reads her article, scrutinizing every word as he carefully rakes over the typed text. Usually, Willa would take her written work to a lower-ranking editor, but Mr. Brad had specifically asked to read this particular piece.

Willa's latest piece was an in-depth investigation on the murder of Marvin Acme – of the Acme Corporation – and the involvement of a particular Judge Doom in planning the murder. Not only was the article written well, it contained the perfect juicy story that readers loved to gobble up. Acme's death had covered every headline for the past few weeks, and Willa was excited to finally have the flawless composition to publish.

Brad leans back in his chair, thick eyebrows raising, "It's good, I'll give you that."

"Thank you, sir," Willa rocks on her toes. Just another step towards being the _Daily Kingdom_'s top reporter.

He shuffles through the pages, then glances at the black-and-white photographs accompanying. "And these, they're well taken. You're not half bad behind a camera, either."

"I love photography," says Willa. "That is, almost as much as writing. Writing is really my favorite, it's always—"

"Well, Isabella," Brad cuts her off, addressing her by her full name. "You've worked hard, I can tell. The writing is strong, the facts are all there, and it's an all-around good piece."

Willa beams, proud. "Do you think it is front page worthy, Mr. Brad?" She twirls one of her dark curls around her finger, stomach fluttering.

He sighs, and his face goes stony. "I don't think so, Isabella."

This takes her completely by surprise, "But… but why not? You said yourself it's an all-around good piece, and I think it's my best."

"That is true, all true," he mutters to himself, yet still wears the fallen look. "But…"

"But _what_? It's exactly what readers are looking for."

"Maybe, it's exactly what they _were_ looking for, actually." Brad sinks back into his chair. "Isabella, this is an intriguing story, yes. But it's getting old. The public has been hearing about Acme and Doom for a few weeks now, and frankly, they're tired of it. Believe me, I'm not trying to discredit the hard work you've done, but running an old story on the front page would hardly be a smart, appropriate move for an editor to make."

"But this isn't an old story, Mr. Brad," Willa is passionate, arguing her case. "Sure, it's taken a few extra days to put together, but that's because I've been doing _so_ much outside research. I've spent nearly four days interviewing and tracking down people alone, and it wasn't easy." She rummages in her folder for other clippings of previous Acme articles. "I've read these all, and while they're good, they barely touch on the deeper issues at play. I'm talking motives, _why _Acme did what he did and how so. Details from the crime scene. History on Acme's activities over the past few months. There is so much more to my article."

"And I can see that, Isabella. The problem is that a reader may not. Front page news has to be big, really big. Yes, your research has gotten you some new information, but it's nothing groundbreaking."

"Not every story breaks ground, you know that. You say yourself, sometimes the best parts of a story are in the details."

"Details or no details, this is not going to sell headlines." Brad says firmly, the palm of his hand slamming onto his desk. Willa is taken aback, and Brad takes a minute to compose himself. "I'm sorry, Isabella. I got carried away."

"No, it's okay." Willa says, her hands lacing behind her back. She feels awkward and uncomfortable, like it's clear that she shouldn't be in this office.

"Really, it's a good piece," Brad tries to be gentle, and Willa appreciates that. "But I'm pushing you because I know you can do better. If there's room, I'll see if we can run the story."

"You will?"

Brad nods, "I can try and move things around. It won't be your big front-page headline, but it'll still be published in the _Daily Kingdom_ tomorrow."

Willa grins, "Thank you, Mr. Brad. And believe me, I'll find the perfect story for you. I won't let you down."

"I'm sure you won't," he reassures her, shifting in his chair. His eyes fall on a framed photograph of the Hollywood sign hanging on his wall. "Isabella?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Have you done a Hollywood piece lately?"

Willa tries to remember, then shakes her head. "No, I haven't. I usually do investigations."

"Well, the public is loving their dose of Hollywood right about now. Until you can get your big story, try something in Hollywood." He pauses to think, "How about that rising star at Lake Buena Vista, the blonde one? What's her name… Turner, Charlene Turner?"

Willa nods politely, "I'll look into that, sir."

…

Friday afternoon saw a steady stream of customers trickle in to the Frozen Marble Ice Cream Parlor, people of all ages with a sweet tooth for something refreshing. The man behind the counter serves homemade ice cream with a smile, and peppy music plays over the radio. Women's heels clack off of the black-and-white tile floor, and eager children swivel around on the barstools in front of the counter.

Then one particular man walks in, looking dejected. He slides into an empty booth towards the corner of the restaurant, knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that this parlor accepted people of all racial statuses. Thank goodness, for he doesn't need another thing to worry about.

Terry Maybeck is a mess.

Maybe he doesn't look like it. He had always been a sharp dresser, keeping standards of personal appearance high on his list. His hair is trimmed short and face shaven, but there is heaviness in his dark eyes. He sits back in a slump, listening to the gentle sway of the music.

Most men head for a few drinks at the bar after a long, hard day of work. Maybeck preferred ice cream, he always had.

He gives a glance towards his cardboard case next to him, large and boxy. Inside, it holds dozens of cartoon sketches along with several cumbersome wheels of animation film. Not that they had been getting him anywhere lately. This was the fourth rejection from a film company since Maybeck had come to Los Angeles a few months back. No one wanted to invest much in animation cartoon pictures, it seemed.

On days like these, Maybeck tries not to think about the life he left behind in Missouri. Of his Aunt Jelly, who had raised him after he lost his parents. Of his friends, who laughed good-heartedly whenever he told them how he would turn his sketches into a big job.

And how was that working out for him?

"Terry Maybeck?" A soft voice says from over his shoulder, and he turns. A slender redhead stands with her hands on her hips, all dolled up in her red striped uniform dress. "You look like you could use a good chocolate fix."

"Good to see me, isn't it Ariel?" Maybeck teases the girl, as he does to most pretty ladies he sees. Ariel is a friend, and he knows she will take it well.

"Don't talk like that sir," she pouts, "It's not very appropriate, now. Are you going to get yourself some ice cream, or are you just keeping the seat there warm?"

"No need to; for an ice cream parlor it is awfully warm in here," Maybeck tugs on the lapels of his jacket. Then he tosses a grin over his shoulder. "But I _do_ tend to heat these joints up."

Ariel can't help but roll her eyes. "Terrance Maybeck, you're truly unbearable. I really shouldn't even get you any ice cream, really."

"What did I tell you back calling me Terrance?" He asks, "Who says I'm not Donnie today?"

"Donnie, Terry, Terrance, it's all the same to me. Just a name."

Maybeck dons a fake British accent, "_What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet_."

Ariel erupts into giggles at Maybeck's silly Shakespeare reference. Finally her laughter subsides, and she catches a glimpse of the heaviness he wears on his face. "Terry, you're a good little actor, but I can tell that something is bothering you."

He sighs, his defenses collapsing. "Rough day with work. Had another presentation, didn't go through."

"Which studio this time?" asks Ariel, dropping into the seat opposite him.

"Fantasia Pictures. Still nothing." He groans, "Every time they tell me the same thing, the same damn thing. It's always _this is very good, but not what we're looking for. Animation is just not a serious market for an entertainer to head into_ and all of that."

"It'll get better, Terry," Ariel reassures, her big blue eyes looking straight at his. "In some way or another, it always does."

"Easy for you to say," mutters Maybeck. "Look at you. You run away from Daddy's island house to the big city, and you're able to find a good, steady job. Sure, it's scooping ice cream, but it's a job."

"Yeah, like my singing career is working so well," Ariel sighs sarcastically, chin falling onto her propped up elbows. "I thought my voice would be enough to get me noticed, but I guess not."

"What about that boy you told me about? He noticed you, didn't he?"

Ariel's eyes light up, "Oh, Eric! Yes, the boy at the aquatics store across the street. He noticed me, or, at least I think he did. I always pass by the window on my way to work, and I think he's seen me once or twice. I'm sure he will say hello to me any day now."

Maybeck laughs, struck by Ariel's hopefulness. "Please, I've seen you pass by that window, Ariel. I've never seen someone look so interested in fishing equipment in my life. For the amount of time you spend in front of that shop, he's going to think you're a mermaid or something."

"Ooh, I like that," giggles Ariel. "I'd love to be a mermaid."

Suddenly, Maybeck has a flash of inspiration. He pulls a beaten sketchbook from his bag, and quickly starts to sketch on the dog-eared pages. His pencil stump can't be much bigger than his pinky, but it flies across the sheet.

He starts with the head, like always. Then long, flowing hair circling around the torso. He adds a sparkling bodice made of seashells and starfish (he figures his mermaid needs a little more than just two seashells on top, for decency's sake!). Then a gorgeous, curvy tail with ruffled fins at the end.

"Is that me, Terry?" asks Ariel. "Is that me as a mermaid?"

He nods, drawing in the bright eyes and tiny facial features. He gives the hair a quick splash of color from a stub of red charcoal, then signs his name and dates it at the bottom.

When Maybeck gives her the page, Ariel can't take her eyes off of it. "It's beautiful, really. I love it. What a wonderful picture," her voice trails off, then she sees the date. "Oh my, the nineteenth already! Terry, its Friday!"

He is confused, "Yes?"

"Are you still going to that dinner tomorrow night? The one you were talking about earlier this week?"

"The fancy one? Probably, I haven't given it much thought."

Ariel rolls her eyes, "What are you going to wear? You need a nice suit – and I'm not saying yours now isn't nice – but a _really_ nice one. Do you have something to wear?"

Maybeck shakes his head like it's no big deal.

"Oh my goodness, Terry!" she squeals. "We need to get you cleaned up and ready for this dinner! Who knows, maybe someone there will want to see your cartoons, or do a deal with you?" Ariel bolts up from the booth. "I'm out at six. We'll get you a good suit then."

Maybeck can't help but feel a little scared. As Ariel begins to take off, he calls to her, "I'll take a scoop of chocolate, please!"

**Author's Note:**

**Firstly, I just wanted to say how much I appreciate the sweet comments left for me! It just brightens my day to get the little _ping_ email with your kind words and feedback. It's crazy to think that people are really liking what I write, so I'm hoping that each chapter meets (exceeds?) your expectations to make it the best story I can write.**

**Secondly, this chapter is full of little easter eggs in characters and references! I had so much fun with it. Can you catch them all?**

**Thirdly, I really try to research the time period fully before I write, to keep it as realistic as possible. So yes, alterations costing around 5 dollars was pricing back in the day. I'll keep researching throughout this story...**

**Fourth and final, the Disney company does not exist in this world. Bummer, I know. There's no Walt here. I need it that way so A) I can use all sorts of Disney characters within my story, and B) to make Maybeck's storyline play out the way I want it. He's a trailblazer in the world of animation.**

**Stay tuned for more! Thanks! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE:**

_Saturday afternoon, 3:30 PM_

Jess paces around the room like a frantic bird in a cage. The walls feel to her as if they are shrinking around her, trapping and crushing her inside. She crosses to her bed and throws a pillow at her wall, taking down a photo-frame with it. Good, breaking things feels better.

Her blood is boiling, but her head feels foggy with confusion. She stumbles around, trying to sort out the information she's just gained. Trying to decipher truth from lie, and secret from secret.

Jess has always known there were mysteries surrounding her life, here at the Overtaker Manor. There had always been questions she couldn't ask, places she couldn't go, doors she could never open and enter…

But Jess had been sick of waiting. Sick of sitting around for someone to fill her in on the elusive truth that had so long evaded her. She was eighteen years old, and would gladly leave the Manor at the first chance she got. She couldn't take this, this pent-up life of solitude and secrecy. She was suffocating, even now.

So she had found that big, oak-paneled door she was forbidden to open. And she opened it. And entered inside. And she saw…

_What _did _I see? _Jess still tries to process. On one hand, she has a lifetime of memories, of childhood stories and familiar scenarios she had been hearing about since coming under Aunt Maleficent's care. And on the other hand, she had photographs and letters – actual, physical proof – that her world was completely fake. That everything was a lie.

"Miss Jezebel," croons a voice from the other side of Jess's shut bedroom door. It was Cruella, one of the housemaids working for Aunt Maleficent.

"Go away," says Jess, throwing open a window to get some air. She looked down. For a fleeting moment, she pictures herself climbing out of the window and scaling the manor wall, just to get away. But it's a three-story drop to the bottom, and she'd never make it down without falling.

"Miss Jezebel, we have your gown for the dinner party tonight," calls Grimhilde, the other of the two maids. "You've got to get ready."

"I said _go away_!" Jess cries, taking off her house slipper and throwing it at the door in anger. Everything inside of her seems so broken, so used. She crumbles against the wall by the window, tears leaving snail trails down her flushed cheeks. For a moment, everything seems to spin. Her world is shattering away.

Then, she stops. Mustering the courage to stand, Jess pulls on a blank, apathetic face and wipes off the tears. There were still too many unanswered questions, too many lies and truths not falling into the puzzle like they should. The only way Jess could see the entire picture would be to clean herself up and carry on; to ask her Aunt _herself_.

Jess walks in slow steps to the door, where Grimhilde and Cruella still wait. She beckons them in without a word, and they don't question her blotchy cheeks or red eyes. They were never necessarily caring or affectionate towards Jess, only serving her because of duty and the paycheck written to them every month.

They lay the garment bag on Jess's bed and unzip it. Inside sits a full-length evening gown, with a lace bodice and a scalloped neckline. As Jess picks it up to examine it, she sees the dramatic back, with its plunging open back to the bodice and a small line of tiny buttons keeping everything together.

"A black dress, of course," Jess sighs, seeing that the entire gown is died the deepest black.

"You know how your aunt finds you so stunning in black," says Grimhilde with an edge in her voice. Jess knew how Grimhilde tended to obsess over her own personal beauty. "Besides, she said it will stand out nicely against your pale skin and dark hair."

"Oh, yes," says Jess, slipping out of her day dress while the maids help her into the newly-made gown. The material is cool and soft, like the alluring breeze from the outside window. "It's the perfect evening gown to wear to, let's say, and fancy funeral."

Neither Cruella nor Grimhilde appreciate Jess's sarcasm, but they keep their mouths shut.

Jess feels the tight lace bodice being buttoned around her ribcage, and it is like the final bar of the cage being locked into place.

_The perfect gown for a funeral_, she thinks to herself, _the way it's looking for me right now, it might as well be my own funeral._

…

_4:30 PM_

"Well, someone is certainly looking handsome," Storey grins, leaning against the doorframe. Finn catches her behind his own reflection in the mirror, and he finishes adjusting his tie. He has chosen a simple navy blue with a shot of green running through, since he was told it brought out the green in his eyes.

"The envelope said formal dress, right?" Finn fusses in front of the mirror.

"Yes, it did. Don't worry, you look fine." Storey creeps up behind him and places her hand on his shoulder. Their reflection looks almost comical, for her head barely reaches his shoulders.

"Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, I don't even know this Maleficent woman. I'm not sure how they came to know me," Finn says.

"I don't think you can turn around now and not go," advices Storey. "It would come off as rude. Besides, it's one dinner. You go, eat for a few hours, make small talk, and come home. Simple, easy."

"True, very true," Finn turns around, with a teasing smile on his face. When he grins, it covers the shadows under his eyes. "What are you going to do without me to boss around for a few hours?"

Storey rises to her tiptoes to flick Finn on the tip of his nose, "I'm going to relax. Is that alright with you?"

"Maybe," he paces to the window, and overhead he can see angry, dark clouds roll in over the Los Angeles skyline. "Looks like a bad storm is coming in tonight."

"Take an umbrella," Storey says, "I won't be there for you to steal one from."

Hearing a honk, they both look downwards, where Dillard waits in a sleek blue car. "Mr. Cole's here, Finn. Time to go."

…

_5:00 PM_

"We're here, Miss Turner," says Genie – Charlene's eccentric driver – from the front seat of her Bentley. "My, my, what a hidden treasure."

The drive from Charlene's luxury home in Beverly Hills up to the Overtaker Manor had been longer than she anticipated. Once they reached the hills on which the Manor sat, there were miles upon miles of twisting, winding roads through the thick, deep woods. The Overtaker Manor is completely secluded, without another house nearby for the next three miles or so. It is perched on the side of the hill, with a spectacular view of Los Angeles below; it sits on-top of the bustling city while at the same time being so far removed.

Charlene cranes her neck for a better view of the old, Gothic-style mansion. It is at least four-stories tall, yet still smaller than the other trees around it. The building is of a gorgeous red brick, with old, wrought-iron accents decorating the rooftop. It looks mysterious and fantastic, like a set out of a Lake Buena Vista movie.

"Genie," Charlene calls to the driver, "I don't know when I shall be finished with my dinner. I'll be sure to telephone you back at the house when I am ready to be picked up, alright?"

"Are you sure you won't want me to stay here, Miss Turner? I don't mind at all," Genie adds, talking quickly as always.

"No, no, it's fine," Charlene says. She wouldn't want Genie stuck out here, in the middle of nowhere, sitting in a lonely car in the dark. Besides, the invitation had specifically said _come alone_, and Charlene figured it would be impolite to offend her hosts.

"Alrighty Missy, you just give a ring-a-roo when you're ready and I'll be back over here in a blink," Genie tosses a wide smile towards his passenger, before putting the Bentley in park. They are on the far-side of a tall, iron fence with a fancy script _O_ decorating the bars. Another car is stopped nearby, an average-looking yellow taxi.

Genie gets out of the driver's seat and adjusts a wide umbrella for his passenger. The bald man crosses to her door and opens it, holding it out for her with the umbrella overhead.

Charlene Turner had never been underdressed or poorly outfitted for an event since the moment her feet touched Californian ground. Coming from a tumultuous, highly-fluctuating industry like Hollywood, she knows the importance of physical appearance and first impressions, so of course she didn't hesitate to dress to the nines. She is wearing a spectacular velvet gown, its color somewhere between dark magenta and crimson. The neckline drapes across her chest in a wide V-neck between each of the tiny cap sleeves, then hangs low and loose across her bare back. Its bias-cut skirt hugs her curvy hips on the way down before fanning out at the bottom. Charlene's hair is rolled into perfect waves, and she sparkles with diamonds at her neck and ears. On her arms sit long, white gloves up to her elbows, and she grips the umbrella that Genie know extends to her. She is breathtaking.

"What a lovely party guest you are, Miss Turner." Genie says good-naturedly. "Those are some lucky hosts inside that manor."

"Why, thank you, Genie. You really are too kind." Charlene beams back at him, glowing with compliments.

Genie looks through the iron gate, "It's still a bit of a walk up to the manor there. Would you want me to walk you to the door, Miss Fancy-Schmancy?"

"I think I'll be fine, Genie, but thanks again." Charlene unclasps the notch on her beaded clutch purse, feeling the thick paper of her invitation nestled snuggly inside.

Across the path, another guest climbs out of the taxi. It's another girl, much shorter than Charlene and – while she is dressed appropriately – not _as_ well-dressed. She wears a fancy cobalt blouse with a ruffled set of sleeves, and a black-and-white houndstooth pencil skirt that flares out at the calves. She has a long black coat around her shoulders, the fur trim ruffling her chin, and a black cloche hat sits perched above her dark curls. The girl awkwardly steps out into the drizzling rain, keeping a practical brown bag tucked tightly under her arms.

"Are you here for the party too?" Charlene calls politely, waving to get the girl's attention.

She nods, hurrying over to Charlene.

"I'm assuming we let ourselves go right through the gates, correct?" asks Charlene, seeing no other alternative. She doubted that the hosts would walk all this way to bring them to the house.

"I think so, another man walked through the gates just as I was arriving," says Willa. She had intended to follow the man up to the manor, but it took her longer than expected to dig up the cash to pay her taxi driver. Her workbag is not the most organized.

Feeling the need for an introduction, Willa sticks out her hand. "Willa Angelo. Reporter for the _Daily Kingdom_."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Angelo. I'm Charlene, Charlene Turner."

Willa gasps, "Of Lake Buena Vista films? _That's_ why you looked so familiar! I've seen every one of your movies."

Charlene laughs, cringing. "Even the early ones?"

"Even the early ones," Willa nods, "Everyone has to start somewhere."

"True, a start is a start, and they've gotten me where I am today," Charlene says. She takes in the girl standing next to her: short and cute, with a rounded face that looks vaguely exotic. Her features are natural and hardly covered with any makeup, except for a splash of red lipcolor and some dark liner over her two inquisitive eyes.

"Being in the journalism field, I've been fascinated by your ascent into stardom, Miss Turner. If you wouldn't mind, I'd love to ask you some questions tonight, over dinner. Nothing too personal, I assure you."

Charlene smirks, "Are you going to profile me in one of your articles, Miss Angelo? If so, I should _really _call my publicist," she teases.

"Oh, no. Technically, I'm off the clock tonight," says Willa, lying. A good reporter is _never_ off the clock, but always observing and investigating.

"In that case, I'd love to talk to you." Charlene agrees, flashing her winning smile.

…

_5:00 PM_

"Where the _hell_ is that old buffoon?!"

Maleficent stands in the grand dining room, shaking a pointed finger at Cruella. She was wears a long-sleeved black and purple gown with a sharp collar, and the splash of green eyeshadow over her beady eyes does nothing to help her sickly complexion.

"I don't know, Miss," says Cruella, looking timid. "He left a few hours ago, said he'd finished all he needed to here and that he had to run an errand."

"An _errand_, at this hour?" Maleficent cries. "I told him that all house staff need to be _at the house_ when the guests start arriving. He knows that!"

"Maybe he's just late. It is really starting to rain out there, and you know how difficult it can be to reach the manor in a storm."

"It's barely drizzling!" Maleficent nearly throws a candlestick at her incompetent maid. "I tell you, the moment Wayne Kresky sets foot inside this house tonight, I'm firing him."

"Miss Maleficent, his working contract is bound to the deed of the house…"

"_I own this house!"_

Cruella continued, "But firing him isn't just that simple. It would take almost a week to work through the necessary contracts and absolve them. Mister Chernabog was very thorough in his contracts, you know that."

"Then we'll just have to work through them," Maleficent grumbles, her voice raising. "I want that old kook _gone_!"

"Who?" Jess asks, walking into the kitchen. She takes her aunt's breath away, but Maleficent had already been breathing hard from her shouting.

"Jezebel, you look lovely." Maleficent gathers herself. "It appears that our groundskeeper has decided not to abide by my commands and work this evening. I was just discussing his imminent release."

"You're going to fire Mr. Wayne? He's practically the manor himself," Jess protests, "You cannot do that!"

"Jezebel, I am in no mood to argue with you, I thought I made that clear this afternoon!" Maleficent references the earlier argument, when Jess had discovered the secrets behind the locked door.

"I still want answers, _Aunt Maleficent_," Jess spits out, "You can't keep things hidden forever."

"Goddammit, Jezebel, stop fighting me on everything! You will learn your place and hold your tongue! If I hear another word from you about this-"

Just then, there is the first knock at the door.

"You'd better go," says Jess with a sarcastic tone to her voice. "It's your first guest, and let's all put on a good face. We wouldn't want to frighten them away, now would we?"

**Author's Note:**

**Apologies for the gap between chapters, I really meant to finish this one sooner. I have two good excuses, the first is a magical thing that comes every April and rhymes with "Bring Cake", and the second being Mr. Pearson's latest (and last!) installment of the Kingdom Keepers series. Hence, it has been nearly impossible for me to stay focused at my computer and write.**

**And again, thanks for the wonderful reviews! You all are too nice!**

**Who's ready for some dinner party action? FINALLY! Let the fun (chaos?) begin...**


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX:**

_5:08 PM_

A tall, tan-skinned houseworker opens the door for Philby, welcoming him to the Overtaker Manor in a flat, exotic sounding voice. "My name is Jafar, and I shall be happy to assist you throughout your evening here. May I lead you into the living room for hors d'oeuvres?"

"Yes, thank you," Philby answers, giving his hat and coat to a nearby dark-haired maid. She hangs it within a closet by the front door.

Philby is led through a long hallway into an exquisitely decorated room. The dim light from ornate lamps fills the room up to its vaulted ceiling. The opposite wall is covered with tall, full-length windows overlooking the Los Angeles skyline. An enormous Persian rug is draped over the wooden floor, with two sofas, a divan, and several chairs and tables spread throughout the room. Over the wide fireplace hangs a dark portrait of a brooding man, his rounded face framed with high cheekbones and thick eyebrows over tiny, beady eyes.

"Welcome, you must be Mister Philby," a voice rings out from a shadowy corner by the window. A woman appears, and judging by the way she carries herself, Philby knows she must be Miss Maleficent. She wears a dark gown edged in violet, with pointed shoulders and long trumpet sleeves. Her black hair is styled with two thick curls on top of her head, like curved horns. "Welcome to my humble abode."

"This spectacular home is anything _but_ humble, Miss Maleficent", he says politely, kissing her extended hand. Her skin is icy cold. "I have to admit, I was both surprised and intrigued upon receiving this invitation. Have we met before?"

Maleficent shakes her head with a sneaky smile, "No, it's a shame we hadn't before."

"Then, may I inquire into why I was invited to such a wonderful dinner?" Philby speaks with calculated words. He accepts a small glass of sparkling water graciously.

"To put it simply, Mister Philby, I've heard plenty about your successes in the camera industry. From what I've been hearing, you're a true revolutionary, and I'm sure you'll have quite the career ahead of you."

Philby colors at the cheeks, "You really are too kind."

"Don't worry with modesty. A young man as successful as you is nothing short of extraordinary. Just the man I was hoping I could introduce my lovely niece to."

Philby nearly gags on his sparkling water, then recovers. "I cannot say I was expecting this to be _that_ kind of dinner, Miss Maleficent."

She paces over to a table, where a diverse plate of meats, cheeses, and fruits is laid out. "Oh no, Philby. It is nothing of the sort. My niece is unfortunately sheltered and has limited contact with other young socialites, and this dinner is simply an opportunity to remedy that."

New footsteps signal another guest's arrival, and a shorter brunette enters the room. Her hooded brown gaze takes in the room, twinkling as her eyes cross to Philby.

"Welcome, Miss Angelo," Maleficent introduces herself with a polite handshake. "Come, meet Mr. Dell Philby."

"It's a pleasure," Willa looks Philby in the eyes as she shakes his hand. Her hands fell warm from nerves.

"The pleasure is all mine," Philby grins back at her.

Maleficent crosses to another figure entering the room. "And Miss Turner, what a treat to have you join us tonight for our dinner."

Philby turns, seeing the blonde starlet in the doorway between the hall and living room. Her bright blue eyes finally catch his, and her smile wavers.

"_You_," she whispers breathlessly, directed at Philby.

He doesn't speak, but his face shows the same look of surprise. _Charlene Turner, _here _at this party?_

…

Finn stands in the living room, quietly munching on a cracker while staring at an oil painting adorning the wall. It's of the famous German palace, the Neuschwanstein Castle. He could practically hear Storey's voice in his head: _Finn, go out and be social. Make friends, they're good for you. I don't care if you don't want to, it's the smart thing to do!_ Finn had always felt like an outsider at these types of events, and that certainly wasn't going to change tonight.

"Beautiful painting, isn't it?"

A voice speaks from behind Finn. It belongs to a dapper, dark-skinned fellow, who stands several inches taller than Finn in a pinstriped suit. He doesn't take his eyes off of the framed canvas.

"It is," Finn answers.

"Did you know it is a Rapunzel?" the man says, referencing the painter. "See, here's the signature. And if you look carefully, you might be able to spot a sunburst painted into the background."

"Really?" Finn squints, then finds the pattern painted into a cloud. "Here, I think there's one here."

"That looks about right. Rapunzel adds a sunburst into each of her paintings, she's quite a talented artist." The fellow nods.

Finn turns, "You seem to know quite a lot about art."

"It's what I do, I've always been interested in art." He extends a hand to shake, "I'm Maybeck, Terry Maybeck. And you are…?"

"Finn Whitman," Finn shakes his hand and smiles. "Nice to meet you. So, tell me, how did you come to know the hostess's family?" Finn is genuinely curious.

Maybeck scratches the back of his neck, searching for words. "Actually, I – I don't really know. I received this invitation in the mail, but I don't think I've ever met Miss Maleficent or her family before tonight."

"It's a relief to see I'm not the only one then," Finn sighs, a little more comfortable.

"Well well," says a sugary sweet voice, matching the gorgeous blonde sauntering over towards Finn. "What a fine pair of gentlemen we have here." When she speaks, it's like she's only acknowledging Finn.

"Finn Whitman," he says with a little blush.

"My name is Charlene Turner, Mr. Whitman," her eyes shimmer like ocean blue waves, catching the light as do the diamonds dripping from her ears. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"You seem… familiar. Have we met before?"

When Charlene laughs, it's like little bells. "No, I do believe I'd remember such a meeting. But I'm in the movie industry. Maybe you've seen one of my films?" She rattles off a few titles, and soon the size of her stardom clearly hits Finn.

Maybeck stands as an outsider, completely ignored. "Terry Maybeck, it's good to meet you." He stretches out his hand, calloused from years with a sketching pencil.

Charlene turns, finally seeing him. She's polite, but hardly as friendly as with Finn. He knows _exactly_ where this is going.

Soon, the chatter and munching comes to a lull when Jess enters the room. She is enchanting, her long black skirt brushing the ground with each step. She carries herself with a spectacular confidence, like a fighter stepping into the ring.

Maleficent makes a few introductions, and then Jess starts to float around the room, saying hello to each of the guests invited to come meet her.

"Hello," she says warmly when she reaches Finn's corner. "I'm Jessica, but you can call me Jess if you'd like."

Finn is a little confused, "But I thought your aunt called you 'Jezebel'?"

"Silly nickname, I prefer Jessica or Jess." She smiles to cover something up.

Charlene's cheeks are pinched, "Charmed", is all she says. Obviously, she doesn't like how Jess's grand entrance trumped her own.

Maybeck says nothing, just simply nods with a knowing smile. There's something more going on, Finn can tell.

From her perch by the window, Maleficent counts heads: only five guests. The six hasn't shown yet. Personally wounded – this last guest was the only one Maleficent had known before inviting – she throws back her shoulders and raises her voice. "Shall we proceed into the dining room for our first course?"

…

"You look lovely, Miss Jessica," Jess hears the tall, dark-skinned man – Maybeck, she remembers her aunt's brief introduction of him.

"Thank you, Mister Maybeck," she replies. Jess tugs up the bottom of her gown to walk without stepping on the bothersome train. Of course, Aunt Maleficent chose a gown with a train. So old fashioned.

Jess pauses, watching Maybeck's wide strides down the hall beside her. A distant memory tugs on her mind. "You look familiar, if I'm not imagining things. Have we met before?"

"I think so, you look similar, in a different sort of way." He speaks almost cryptically, but his eyes sparkle with tiny fires. He knows.

Jess and Maybeck have fallen to the back of the line, passed by the other guests and house-help. "Donnie Maybeck," says Jess slowly, "Do you know a Donnie Maybeck?"

He nods, "I do."

She feels her hopes soar a little, "Are you related to him? Close with him?"

He nods again, "Yes, yes. Some people think we have so much in common, you could almost say we're the same person." His eyes continue to send sparks.

Jess catches on, "Donnie, _you're_ Donnie, aren't you?"

Maybeck's ruse crumbles, and he breaks into a grin. "Terrance is my first name, but I liked going by Donnie when I was younger. Thought Terrance sounded too much like 'Terrible' in my little childish mind."

Jess doesn't see her aunt anywhere in the hall, so she loses the proper hostess persona and throws her arms around Maybeck's broad shoulders. "Donnie - it's been years! So long since I've seen you!"

He hugs her back, "I'm surprised you still remember me."

"What makes you believe that?" she gasps.

"Well, for a fancy girl like you, I was just another childhood playmate, this time from Missouri." He shrugs.

"Donnie, that was my favorite summer as a little girl. When I was living with that nice Merriweather family." Jess breaks away, standing a good head beneath him. At eight years old, Jess had been taken from the orphanage where she'd been living to spend a summer with the Merriweather's, a family interested in adopting her. They wanted to get to know her first, so she spent two months living with them in their big, country home outside Marceline, Missouri. "It was the summer I felt free, before…" Her voice drifts off.

He looks her in the eyes, "Before your aunt found you?"

"Everyone called it a blessing, a godsend. Finding a long-lost family member to come and take me away. Almost too perfect to be true."

He tries to lift her spirits again, to bring the smile back to her big pale eyes. "Do you know what my favorite memory from that summer is?"

She raises her eyebrow.

Maybeck continues, "When we stole that jar of berry jam from Mrs. Flora on the corner street. And we ran and ran…"

"…And we ate the entire jar ourselves by the little lake with the willow trees." Jess finishes the memoir. "No bread or spoons or anything."

Maybeck wiggles his fingers, "Ate the whole thing with our bare hands."

Jess laughs, "Or when we tried to catch crickets by the old bridge over the lake."

He remembers, "You lost your cricket, you were devastated."

"I was. Then, to make me feel better, you drew me a picture of my very own cricket, with a stump of charcoal on an old wrapper. What did I name it?"

"I think it was Jiminy."

"Jiminy, yes!" Jess laughs again, and Maybeck joins in. When they settle down, she continues, "Did you know it was me, when you came to this party? Did you recognize me?"

He shakes his head, "Not at first. You look so different, dyed hair, all grown up and lovely." She blushes, "I didn't know your aunt had married and moved out to Los Angeles. But I recognized her the moment I saw her. Your Aunt Maleficent isn't really someone you'd forget."

"And you barely even saw her in Missouri," says Jess.

He adds, "I didn't really recognize you at first, especially when she introduced you as Jezebel. But when I saw you smile, that's when I knew."

Jess smiles back at him, it feels comforting to have a friend at a party full of strangers. Even if it is a friend from ten years ago, and miles away in her heart.

Then, the dark cloud of a troubling thought shadows her mind. She recalls her discovery from that afternoon, the secrets revealed and questions still unanswered. "Donnie, do something for me."

"What?" Maybeck asks.

"After dinner, _right_ after dinner, you should leave. Go home. Make up an excuse, pretend to be sick, _something_. The less you stay here, the better."

Maybeck is confused, "What do you mean? Why?"

"Something isn't right here, Donnie. I don't know why you were all invited, and everywhere I turn I see more secrets. Secrets, everywhere!"

"Can you tell me what isn't right? We can try and figure this out?"

"No," she stops him. "I'm not even sure myself. There are too many questions that haven't been answered yet. Too many gaps."

"Then should we tell the others to go home?"

"I'm telling _you_ because I care about you," Jess is getting more passionate. "I don't know what's going to happen, but I can feel it. Something big is brewing. Shadows, there are shadows everywhere! Shadows and secrets! Shadows in the house, in the dark, in the stories, in my mind. I can't see clearly, or think clearly. It's the shadows."

Maybeck looks at Jess with a genuinely concerned face, "Jess, you're looking pale. Are you okay?"

"_Jezebel_!" Maleficent's cold voice calls from the dining room, loud and commanding. "Darling, we're all waiting!"

Jess shakes her head, "I can't say anything more, I don't know. I don't know." She repeats and starts to walk towards the dining room. When Maybeck tries to stop her, she turns as his hand clasps her wrist. "I can't, Donnie. Nothing more."

**Author's Note:**

**Oooh, anyone starting to feel uneasy? (says the author writing it, hahahaha)**

**Apologies for the late update. I couldn't finish this chapter, and I tried several times. But I _did_ finally finish KK the Insider! Loved it, was a little surprised by the direction the ending took, but I trust Ridley to work his literary magic and do what he deems best for his characters and creations. Don't want to give anything away.**

**Really looking forward to the backstory between Philby and Charlene. Odd pairing in the KK world, I know. But you'll see it all play out.**

**Easter Egg: Anyone know the connection between the Disney parks and the Neuschwanstein Castle? wink wink ;)**

**Another Easter Egg/Note: So, back a few chapters ago, when I introduced Maybeck, I said that he was from Missouri. The way I chose Missouri: I found a map of the US and I chose the first Midwest state I saw. Meanwhile, Missouri - specifically a town called _Marceline_ - happens to be a very important, special town to a certain young Walt Disney, where he spent some of his childhood. He even used this town as inspiration for locations in his films and theme parks (eh hem, Main Street USA, anyone?) I completely did NOT plan that connection between Walt and my very Waltish-interpretation of Maybeck, but I thought that's cool how it played out. I swear, not intentional. Though, I'm keeping it! **

**And always, your kind reviews brighten my day! Thanks for making me smile :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**I give my one-thousand apologies for taking so long to upload. The beginning of May has been the busiest time of my year, and this chapter has taken forever for me to actually complete. Dialogue-heavy scenes are always tougher for me to write - especially when I'm not "in the mood" to write them - but I'm excited to have finally completed most of the Dinner Party Table scene! Enjoy!**

**CHAPTER SEVEN:**

_6:02 PM_

As if the manor hadn't wowed its guests before with spectacular architecture and finishes, it certainly did now. The dining room has a high, vaulted ceiling all made of the darkest red wood. There is an enormous set table, covered in silken linens and glittering with cut glass and silver. Behind the head of the table, obviously the seat of Miss Maleficent, roars a giant fire in the hearth, casting a warm glow to the darkened room. Shadows are thrown all over the walls, and in the low light the chandelier above the table looks like it is made from skeletal hands.

"Come, my good guests," Maleficent beckons to the table, "Sit down. I've taken the liberty of placing namecards at your seats, for your convenience."

Philby pulls his tall chair out, glancing at the notecard indicating his seat. It sits elegantly on the pearly plate. As everyone sits down, he notices an empty seat beside him. "Are we still missing a guest?"

"I'm afraid so," Maleficent sits with an impossibly straight back, "I don't know where Miss Ringwald is this evening, or why she is so late. No matter, we cannot let our food get cold, now can we?" She claps her hands together, and the two housemaids bring out loaded trays of food.

The first course is a creamy avocado soup that puddles in a brilliant, bright green in the bowl. As Finn takes his first sip, he cannot help but enjoy the frothy, fresh taste.

Philby starts the conversation, "Miss Maleficent, the architectural style of this manor is truly incredible. Quite unlike anything I've seen before, I must say."

"Why thank you, Mr. Philby. The manor belonged to my late husband, Chernabog. He never had much of an artistic eye, yet he somehow managed to build this place into – well, I like to think of it as its own little castle."

Philby nods, swallowing. "I'm afraid I had never met your husband. A true shame, since he seems like a special man to have known."

Willa sits forward, "I never met him either, actually. If you don't mind my curiosity, is it true that he owned more private businesses in the Soviet Union than any other individual?"

Maleficent interrupts, "_Russia_, my dear. Regardless of the nation's current political state, it will always be Russia to my ears." She gives a slight grin, then continues. "I won't be divulging too much of Chernabog's business relations, I wouldn't want to bore you with petty talk of numbers and trades."

"It's not boring at all," says Willa. "You see, miss, I work for the Daily Kingdom, and I'd be lying if I didn't say your late husband was a most _interesting_ character. From the stories I've heard, of course."

"Only stories," Maleficent closes the topic, "Stories can be harmful in their untruthfulness."

Jess lays her hands in her lap, "So," she speaks, addressing the young guests, "Have any of you ever met my uncle?"

One by one, each head gives a slightly-guilty shake.

"Do you ever remember any indirect contact with him? Business or associates?"

Again, no one can say they have.

"How interesting," Jess sits back. "My Aunt _specifically_ told me that she invited each of you because – what was it? – your _connections_ to my Uncle Chernabog. Connections which, I'm assuming, none of you know anything about."

"Jezebel," Maleficent cuts her off, her tone icy. She remembers her other guests at the table, and she warms her voice. "Now is neither the place nor the time to discuss the guest list."

"I just thought it was a fascinating observation."

"Inappropriate, Jezebel." Maleficent takes a long sip from her wine glass, the ruby liquid sloshing around in the crystal like blood. She is quick to change the subject. "Miss Turner, I must congratulate you on your last fantastic film. I don't get outside to the movie theaters often, but I did enjoy you in _The Great Gatsby_."

Charlene blushes delicately, "Thank you. Daisy Buchanan was a wonderful character to play for a thousand reasons. She may even be my favorite role."

"What makes her so fun to play?"

"Well, she is the portrait of a perfect society girl, a least in appearance." Charlene takes a quick sip of her own wine, "But she has her own secrets. Everyone does."

"Secrets make things interesting," Maleficent says nonchalantly.

Jess speaks up, "They can be dangerous. Destructive, even."

Maleficent gives her niece another pointed glare, and Maybeck decides to step in, "So, Miss Maleficent, I couldn't help but notice the painting by Rapunzel hanging in the living room. Was your husband an art collector?"

Maleficent stirs her soup slowly, "My husband knew fine things when he saw them, art included. He was a man who loved his luxuries." She hangs in a strange, trancelike stare, then snaps and continues, "That painting was a gift from a colleague of his, and it was one of his favorites. Chernabog found a certain elegance in the castle at Neuschwanstein. Remind me, Mister Maybeck, you're a bit of an artist yourself, aren't you?"

He straightens in his chair, "Yes ma'am. I am, an animator, actually. My sketches have been featured in all of the local magazines back in Missouri for a few years,"

"Is that so?"

"Yes, but it was my Aunt Jelly who suggested I should travel out west to try and bring them to Hollywood. She thought the motion picture business would be the next big place for cartoons, and I hope to prove her right."

A new round of food emerges, this time with trays laden with leafy green salads.

"In fact, I'm meeting with an executive from Lake Buena Vista films next week, to discuss my cartoons. A Mister Frollo, if I believe."

Charlene seems to gag slightly on the cherry tomato she had just popped in her mouth. Trying to recover, she mutters, "Pleasant fellow."

Philby speaks, "What a fine coincidence! I'm meeting with Mr. Frollo next week as well, to introduce my latest line of cameras. We're going to talk on Tuesday."

Nodding, Maybeck says, "So am I. Funny how the world works."

"I should give you a ride down to the studios, then," Philby smiles, a little smug. "I have a fancy new, red Ford that I just love showing off, if you don't mind me saying so. A real beauty, plenty of room for passengers. I could give you a lift."

Charlene's lips tighten into a smile. "Men and their cars," she sighs, matter-of-factly. She turns to Finn, trying to include him. "Don't you love cars too, Mister Whitman?"

"No, I can't say I do." Finn answers quickly, not wanting to divulge into the messy details.

Hurried footsteps travel down the hallway, and soon the hunched-over form of an old, white-haired man appears in the low light. It is Mr. Wayne, the absent groundskeeper. "Please excuse my delayed arrival, Miss Maleficent."

She grits her teeth, her composure cracking. "_Where - have - you - been_?"

"I bring a guest," Wayne offers, not bothering to let Maleficent finish. He extends his hand, and a girl reaches for his grasp. "Allow me to introduce Miss Amanda Lockhart, here in the place of Miss Sally Ringwald."

Amanda steps into the light, and she physically takes Finn's breath away. She is tall and trim, her skin bearing a rich, natural tan. She wears a bias-cut gown made of vivid teal charmeuse, with a deep v-cut neckline, thin straps, and a jeweled brooch just below the bust. Dark navy gloves run past her elbows, and her dark hair falls in waterfall waves over her shoulders.

Maleficent stands up abruptly. "I'm afraid the invitation was _specifically_ for Miss Ringwald. Her presence here is surely missed, yet not replaceable by any girl off of the street!"

"Miss Lockhart is a longtime friend of the Ringwald's, isn't that right?" Wayne looks at Amanda, who nods mutely.

"I'm sorry," Maleficent shakes her head, "I cannot allow this. This is a private dinner, and—"

"You can stay."

All heads turn to Jess, who now too stands. "We cannot send her out in the rain like this! That would be just inhumane. Besides, there is plenty of room and food here for Miss Lockhart to stay."

Amanda looks elegantly embarrassed in this situation, "It _is_ raining brutally outside." No one argued with that; they could all hear raindrops pounding on the ceiling through the next uncomfortably-long pause.

"Fine," Maleficent capitulates through clenched teeth. She sinks back into her chair as Amanda finds her place beside Philby. She introduces herself politely to the man sitting next to her. All the while, Finn cannot take his eyes off of her. He knows her from somewhere.

"Tell me, Miss Lockhart," Maleficent calls out, "How exactly do you know the Ringwald's?"

Amanda took a quick breath before speaking, as if gathering herself, "My mother has known Mrs. Ringwald for years, dating back to when they were children. They grew up together, and have managed to stay in touch."

"Mrs. Ringwald grew up in Idaho, if my memory is correct," says Maleficent. "Is that where your mother is from too?"

Amanda nods, "Yes, she lived there as a child."

"Do tell me dear, where in Idaho did your mother meet Mrs. Ringwald? Did they live near each other?" Maleficent is clearly testing Amanda.

Wayne clears his throat from the doorway, "If you don't mind, Miss, I'm going to change out of these muddy old groundskeeper clothes, they're quite soaked from the rain."

In a commanding tone, Maleficent barks, "And then you will return back here and serve my guests. Your actions are not without consequence, Mr. Kresky, and we will discuss _in length_ later on."

He shuffles out of the room, leaving all of the guests taken aback. Amanda speaks up, "Your groundskeeper really is a gentle man. He came out, in the pouring rain like this, to bring me all the way to your home."

"And why he brought you I'll never quite understand," Maleficent doesn't bother hiding her dislike for Amanda.

"Sally sends her regards, and apologizes for being unable to attend this evening. She fell ill just before this evening with a terrifying stomach ailment, and she told me to come in her place."

"How? By telephone?" Maleficent continues the interrogation, while the rest of the table sits silently. "Then tell my why she didn't phone here and explain her absence for this evening?"

"I was already at her home," Amanda speaks swiftly, yet calmly. "She told me in person, and then I left quickly so as not to catch her bug myself. I tried to phone your home, and Mr. Kresky answered. That's why he was the one to pick me up. I didn't know the directions to your home, and my family's driver was out at an event with my parents."

"I don't buy a word of it," Maleficent blurts out, "not one word. Tell me, girl, where does Sally Ringwald live?"

Amanda pauses, then recites, "33 Donald Boulevard."

"That is an address, too rehearsed. Tell me, _where_ does she live?"

Amanda tries to make up for it, "On the southern side of town, in the direction of Inglewood. It's a large, stucco-faced house with six palm trees lining either side of the driveway."

Maleficent opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it tightly. Face blank, she turns and beckons to the maid standing in the shadows. It is Grimhilde, the dark-haired one.

"Bring me the telephone, I want to call Sally Ringwald and ask her how she is feeling."

As the maid scampers off, Jess turns down the table and smiles at Amanda. "That dress really is spectacular on you. It looks custom-made, just for you!"

Amanda blushes, "Thank you, Miss Jessica. You could say it was custom-made."

"Then you really have the eye for clothing." Jess is nothing but friendly.

Finn watches Amanda, seeing the way her eyes dart down at her lap shyly as Jess compliments her on her fashion sense. There, now he's certain he has seen her before, and he knows exactly where from. But… _How does it line up with her story?_ Can he really be correct?

Light chatter from the young guests at the table fills the tense silence for the next few minutes. Another course is brought out, full of rich steak and tender fresh fish. Everyone is enjoying the food when Grimhilde returns holding the rotary phone, the cord stretched far into the dark hallway.

Maleficent clutches the earpiece in her icy hands, punching numbers around the spinning dial. She waits, speaker pressed up to her ear, but hears nothing by static. "Why can't I get my call through?" She growls.

"It must be the storm," Philby suggests. "The Manor is so isolated, something must be interfering with the telephone service here."

Maleficent tries redialing again three times before slamming the earpiece back onto the phone's base. All around her, the guests have tried to carry on polite conversation, but they can all feel the worried atmosphere around them.

Something tells them they won't be leaving the manor anytime soon.

**Again, so sorry it took so long to upload. **

**I broke the Cardinal Rule in writing, where I began a story without really knowing where it was going plotwise. (For anyone who has watched the TV show "Lost", then we all know how dangerous that can be!) but now I think I have a clearer idea of what will happen. Mwahahaha...**

**Dialogue drives me crazy, especially these big group scenes. But I love working the characters together, and now we have all of our Keepers introduced and present at the Manor.**

**Expect the unexpected :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**Wow, this is the longest chapter so far! I count 3,191 words, so I'm pretty proud of that.**

**This chapter has a lot thrown into it, but I knew where I wanted to end it. It's a pretty big turning point, and I hope that you guys will stick with me through it. Warning: we do have some character death. But that's the nature of a murder-mystery story, and hopefully I'm doing it justice.**

.

.

**CHAPTER EIGHT:**

**_7:11 PM:_**

Wayne moves with a slow step, his heavy footfalls ringing out across the kitchen's tiled floor. The chaos of a busy kitchen has faded away with the evening, and now only two other workers remain in the room: Grimhilde sweeps the floor while Jafar is rinsing a dish in the sink. Wayne limps over to the counterplace and begins to dry a long tray with a rag.

"You swim in dangerous waters, old man." The voice breaks the kitchen silence, coming from Jafar.

Wayne is caught off-guard, "I don't know what you're talking about. You are going to have to be more specific than that."

"You know exactly what I mean," Jafar's beady eyes gaze at Wayne. He is a tall, exotic man, with leathery tanned skin and a wisp of a goatee. "Maleficent isn't pleased with you at all."

"It isn't hard to see why," sneers Grimhilde, from the other corner of the room. Even as she sweeps the floor, she still carries herself like a queen. "And I can't say I'm sorry for you, Kresky. Your misstep just makes the rest of us look better."

Wayne is cornered, "This is ridiculous. My business here is between myself and Miss Maleficent. It doesn't concern either of you in the slightest."

Grimhilde laughs, a twisted, shrill sound. "You should've seen the way Maleficent was screaming to Cruella about you. I'm surprised she didn't sack your sorry rear the moment you set two feet in the door."

"No one disappears from a night on the job with Maleficent," Jafar says, "Especially not on such an important night."

"Plus, if the rumors don't deceive me, that's not the only reason you're in deep."

Wayne turns around, trying not to look too interested, yet losing the battle miserably. His sharp blue eyes are alight with a strange sort of fire, ignited by this confrontation. "What, Grimhilde? What rumors are preying on me now?"

Grimhilde shrugs, then speaks to the floor with a smirk. "Maleficent doesn't like the way you've been talking to her niece. She doesn't approve of your friendship with Jezebel."

"I've been nothing but civil and appropriate with Miss Jessica. There is no possible reason to assume otherwise," says Wayne.

"Maleficent believes you're filling the girl's head with all sorts of treacherous thoughts. Ever since she's been growing closer to you, she's been questioning everything Maleficent says. Now she starts peeking in behind closed doors and stepping out of her place."

"Jessica is a young woman, she has every right to be curious. Besides, she's spent nearly the past ten years locked away in this manor. It's enough to make anyone eager for a way out, _any_ way out."

"It's never gone this far before," Jafar says, "Even in all of their arguments, never this far. Maleficent isn't happy with you. First you meddle with her niece's mind, then you put her special dinner in jeopardy. Do you even realize how important this is? Everything has been building up to this, and here you go, threatening to undermine it all."

Wayne shakes his head, turning to leave. "I think I'll make use of my time somewhere else. This is a big house with plenty to do."

"_She _isn't happy," Grimhilde's words cut him off. Her tone has dropped into an icy growl, and Wayne catches this.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he answers.

"_She_ doesn't like people messing around with _her_ plans. Like Jafar said, dangerous waters."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Wayne repeats. "Maleficent has made it clear that she intends to fire me, and I only hope she has all of her paperwork in line. It's bound to take a while to be rid of me."

Jafar rounds on Wayne, backing him against the kitchen wall. "You think you're so invincible, old man? You think you're so valuable, because you've been tied to this manor for God-only-knows-how-long. Please, this place was _nothing_ before Chernabog bought it. You prance around, all high and mighty like this is all your little kingdom, when it was nothing more than a few crumbly walls before it was bought."

"I'd take the crumbly walls over what this manor has become. It wasn't always the Overtaker Manor, it wasn't always this façade of a proper home. Everything inside is a deception, all of it!" Wayne's face begins to color as his voice rises. "Fake doors and disappearing hallways, secret passages and spying mirrors. None of that was here before Chernabog. I've been attached to this home for 59 years, and it has been tainted with something wicked ever since Chernabog renovated it. So forgive me if I won't tolerate the dark things that go on behind these walls, forgive me if I'm the only one to stand up to Maleficent and not cower in a corner bending to her every command!"

"_You serve her_!" Jafar spits. "You work for _her_! Don't forget your place Kresky. You are poison in this manor, and Maleficent was wise to spot it before the rest of us."

Wayne shoulders his way past Jafar, heading towards the doorway. "Cowards, all cowards!"

Grimhilde thrusts the broomstick against the wall, smacking a fly and crushing it beneath the bristles. "Get gone, old man. Or we might as well take care of you for Maleficent right here and now. Not like you'll be missed in the slightest."

…

**_7:34 PM:_**

Finn uses the side of his fork to pick up the last bite of his cheesecake, letting the creamy-lemony goodness slide down his throat. He drags the prongs of the fork through the splatters of raspberry sauce left on his plate and draws little swirls. For all of the mysterious air surrounding this dinner, the food was nothing but delicious.

To his left, the elegant Charlene dabs at the corner of her mouth with a silken napkin. Finn notices she eats her cheesecake in tiny bites, no doubt remembering the svelte figure she needs to maintain for her films and endless photographs. She glances around the table with the same look in her eyes as everyone else: the conversation has lulled to polite speech, but everyone is curious as to why they were _really_ called here.

Maleficent glances down the two sides of the long table, smiling at her attractive, well-to-do guests. She opens her mouth to speak, two thin red lips parting-

Suddenly, the room becomes very dark, very fast. The dining room has never been very well-lit in the first place, but now all of the bulbs on the chandelier flicker out. Cries ring out from the seated guests, and Finn hears someone's chair scoot backwards loudly. A metallic utensil clatters onto one of the plates, and Finn doesn't even realize it is _his_ fork.

Barely two seconds pass in darkness before the lightbulbs re-illuminate the room, restoring the dim ambience. But it is clear that everyone has been caught off guard, including Maleficent herself.

Philby sits a good foot-and-a-half from the table, for he instinctively pushed his chair out when the lights dropped out. "It must be the storm. It sounds like it is getting worse."

Maleficent stands and turns around, "It cannot be _that_ bad. The manor has never lost power before, and we've all been through thunderstorms." She walks to one wall and throws open a pair of blackout curtains, previous invisible in the dimness. The sky is an uncharacteristic yellow color, and far too dark outside for this hour of the day. Rain falls in diagonal sheets, and the wind bends the trees at a precarious angle. From this window, little can be seen of the grounds beyond the torrent outside.

"What do we do?" Charlene murmurs, "Is it safe to be this far out in the woods in a storm like this."

"Of course," Maleficent reassures her guests. "This manor is old, but made of sturdy brick and perfectly fortified. You'll be safe as long as you stay indoors. In fact, it's not _staying_ that worries me, it's _leaving _the manor."

Willa takes a quick breath, "The road approaching the manor was full of hills and dips. How can we get a car along that road in this kind of weather? Can you imagine how dangerous it must get?"

"It was terrifying when Mr. Kresky brought me here," Amanda says quietly. "The car was sliding all over the road, there was just too much standing water on the ground. And that was a good hour ago, and the rain hasn't given up in the slightest. Think about how bad it must be now."

"Is there another way out of the manor's grounds, another road?" Finn suggests, "One that won't be so dangerous in this storm?"

Maleficent shakes her head, still keeping her eyes trained on the weather outside.

Maybeck turns to Jess, "What do you normally do when it rains this badly?"

She shrugs, "We wait it out. This manor is large and fully-equipped, we've never had much of an issue in the past."

"It's too dangerous for you to leave here," Maleficent decides, finally turning away from the windy with a steely face. "I think we can all agree that staying the night – or at least until the storm gives up significantly – is the only option. We have plenty of rooms here, with enough food and other supplies to make your stay comfortable."

"_Can_ we stay?" Finn asks politely, not wanting to feel like he is intruding. Quite honestly, a part of him wants Maleficent to change her mind and allow them to brave the storm. At least maybe _that_ would erase the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Of course," Jess answers for her aunt, specifically answering the worried look in Amanda's eyes. Now is not the best time to be an uninvited guest, and Jess doesn't want to risk Maleficent throwing Amanda out into the rain.

Maleficent turns on her pointed heel and beckons to Cruella, a maid with short dyed hair hiding in the shadows. "Go tell the others to prepare five - _six_ rooms." She corrects herself, remembering Amanda. "Our guests will be staying until the storm eases up, and by my guess, that won't be until the morning. How is the telephone?"

"Still out of order, my lady. All you get throw the earpiece is a dull buzz, nothing gets through at all."

Maleficent nods slowly, mentally taking it all in. Her perfect party has taken a different turn in direction, and she hasn't even been able to do what she called the guests for. _Then again_, she realizes, _with them all split up and in different rooms, this may be easier than I intended_.

She gathers herself and puts on an empty smile to ease the minds of her guests. "Your rooms are being prepared right now as we speak. Let me give you a tour of the mansion while we wait, since there's so much to see."

The guests follow in a small line behind Maleficent, leaving the dining room. As they make their way down the hall, Maleficent feels a gentle tap on her shoulder.

"Miss Maleficent?" It is Charlene, speaking in a whisper tinged with a slight Southern sound. "Do _any_ of the telephones here work? I really should call my agent and let him know where I am. I've got an important set of scenes to shoot on Monday, plus a photo spread in _Hollywood_ magazine, so…"

"Oh, I'm sure the storm will let up by tomorrow morning at the latest," Maleficent assures Charlene. "And no, none of the phones seem to be working through his rain, I'm sorry. It seems you'll just have to wait it out tonight."

Charlene's angelic face turns pale as Maleficent rounds the corner, leading the little procession further along the tour.

…

**_7:58 PM:_**

"And here we have the western library," Maleficent continues to narrate as her guests file into the small room. Tall wooden shelves line every wall, filled from top to bottom with a myriad number of books. "We call this one the dark-oak library, for the wood furnishings in here. It allows us to distinguish between this library and the two others in the manor."

Willa stands facing one shelf, and her fingers delicately brush the leather covers of the fancy books. "Do you read a lot, Jess?"

"Jezebel loves to read," Maleficent answers for her. "The Classics, especially."

When Maleficent turns her back, Jess shrugs. "I do it to pass the time," she whispers. "But I really love to sketch. That's my favorite thing to do."

Soon, Maleficent leads her guests out the door and towards a shadowy doorway. They descend a set of stairs dimly lit overhead with a small wall sconce. Shadows are thrown in every direction as they reach the first floor.

"What is down here?" Maybeck asks. This is the first time they have been taken to the very first floor; the main door and dining room where all technically on the _second_ floor.

"There's really only one thing of much interest down here, besides another one of the kitchens and the worker's rooms." Maleficent says, beckoning to a few closed doors. They continue down a long hall, where the women's heels clack along the wooden floors in a rhythmic march. Finally Maleficent reaches a wide door, pushes it open, and stands in front of another door. This one is only partially wooden, accented with a large pane of frosted glass in the center.

Maleficent twists the handle and leads her guests into a giant room. It looks too big to possibly sit underneath the manor, and yet somehow it does. The floor and walls are covered in large white tiles, and in the center of the room is an enormous, rectangular swimming pool. The water is still and clear, the slightest blue color as it reflects the shade of the high ceiling above.

"Remarkable," Philby marvels. "I've never seen a private indoor pool this large in my life."

Finn walks over to the edge and stares down, making out the tiny glass tiles decorating the floor six feet down. His own handsome reflection looks back up at him as he speaks. "This must be new, right? The work of your late husband."

"Yes," says Maleficent, "Chernabog was never one for swimming himself, but he loved showing off. To date, this is the largest private pool housed indoors in the greater Los Angeles area. We're very proud of it."

Jess also stands by the edge, looking down at the deepest side of the pool. She has never been the strongest swimmer, but she still enjoys it. She jumps slightly at the whispered voice from behind her.

"Don't fall in," teases Maybeck under his breath. He speaks from right behind her ear.

"I don't plan to," she tosses back. "Wouldn't want to ruin this lovely funeral dress." She sighs sarcastically.

Maybeck glances her over, "I don't think it looks like a funeral dress. Black is a nice color on you."

"You sound like my aunt," Jess groans quietly. Seeing the rest of the party turn towards the door, she gathers the bottom of her skirt and hurries after them.

…

**_8:07 PM:_**

"Up here, this is the guest room hallway," Maleficent indicates to several doors on either side of a long, carpeted hallway. Each door looks exactly the same, make of dark wood with a shining brass handle. "Each one of you will have your own room, and every room has an adjoining bathroom as well. Gentlemen to the left, women on the right. Feel free to head on in and take a look around. Let me know if anything is – how should I say it? – _not to your liking_, and I'll have one of the maids adjust it."

Finn reaches a door on his left and opens it. Inside, the doorway opens to a small, yet comfortable room. To the right sits a large, canopied bed with old-fashioned curtains and a dusty stack of pillows. To his left is a small door, and when he opens it, he finds a spotless bathroom gleaming and polished. The room looks old and long-untouched; yet, upon opening a dresser drawer, he sees a neat stack of fresh, nicely-folded clothing sitting inside.

He crosses to the single window in the room and throws open the heavy velvet curtains. Outside, the sky has become an even-darker shade of messy yellow, and Finn watches all of the trees bend and sway in the wind. From down the hallway, Finn can hear Maleficent call for attention, but the storm outside has an almost-mesmerizing effect, and he stays put at the window.

A few minutes pass before a voice at the door draws Finn's attention away from the glass pane. He turns to see the red-headed British fellow, Philby, standing in the doorway.

"Finn, I'm not sure if you Miss Maleficent's announcement or not. She says she's going to organize some things for our evening stay, then she will call us down for some coffee, if you'd like to join us. She says we can take this time to freshen up or explore the manor. Maleficent would like us to be ready in an hour, if you're interested."

"Thanks, Philby," Finn smiles back at him.

"No problem at all," the redhead responds. "I'm right next door to you, so let me know if you've got any other questions."

"I will," Finn nods, and Philby leaves. Turning back to the windowpane, Finn cannot help but see Storey's little smirk of a smile in the back of his mind. He cannot wait to tell her about this one. His attending the dinner was all her idea in the first place.

Another particularly-loud gust of wind rattles the window. _I hope Dillard got home alright_, Finn thinks to himself.

…

**_9:09 PM:_**

Time passes.

A good hour flies by with no one really watching it. Every guest settles in their room rather quickly, and – overtaken with curiosity – decides to roam the enormous manor and explore. One by one, they creep out of their room and head off in opposite directions, no two guests ever crossing paths with another.

As the hour comes to a close, each guest quietly gathers in the living room, waiting patiently for their hostess to fetch them. They make small talk and admire the room's fixtures, but each sitting the slightest bit on-edge.

Maleficent enters the room with her typical cool composure, and soon sends for Cruella to fetch the coffee pot. Scurrying to the downstairs kitchen, Cruella spots a door that shouldn't be open. It is the door leading to the pool, hanging wide ajar.

Sensing something out of the ordinary, Cruella takes quiet steps into the pool's room. The moment her eyes touch the water, she lets out a blood-curdling scream.

There's no mistaking the form floating face-up in the center of the pool. No mistaking the dark curled hair, or the lacy black dress billowing out from behind her.

And the all-too present red stain, spilling out from behind Jess's body like a cloud of death.

.

.

.

**There you have it. Chapter 8.**

**Now it's pretty clear which direction this is going to go in. I hope that I didn't make anyone too angry with Jess's death, (yes, she is dead) but this was all in the original plan of my story from day one. _Not_ that I don't love Jess; she's been a lot of fun to write, and from the comments I'm getting, you seem to really respond well to the way I write her. She still is going to play a big role in the rest of the story, so stick with me and it'll only get better from here! Things are going to get good...**

**Your comments are wonderful to read, as always. Let me know how this chapter sits with you, and feel free to give suggestions or requests! I'd love to see what _you'd_ like to see in this story, and maybe I can fit it in :)**


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